The first time was easy. A heart for a broken heart. But what will you give me?, they said. She had heard that story before but didn’t mind.
The cut on her throat was firm and precise. A thin line through her neck like a smile. Small enough not to be noticed from afar.
Sing to me, the demon said, stretching their S’s and M’s, like a steaming kettle.
There were two voices, then. Two lips, two mouths. Two sets of teeth. The notes grew out of her throat like snakes, slivering out, crawling out of her tongue. Her voice, more powerful than ever before.
She knew, at that moment, what had happened. The deal was sealed. Her enemy would be no more.
The first time she stood on a stage, the crowd went wild. Not with awe or passion, but with resentment and fear. How could she do this? They did not know. They would never understand.
Resentment would never stop her. Not other people’s resentment, anyway.
The third and fourth slits brought new heights to her voice. In exchange, she promised the demon a limb and a mind. A limb that hurt her. A mind that pierced her. They would be broken. Her promises were never her own, always the misfortune of others. It did not matter. What she gained from it was far greater. Four timbers sewn in one. A harmony of a single angel.
But she wasn’t an angel. Not yet.
She climbed onto the stage one last time. An extra set of lips and teeth and tongue right under her chin. Another where her adam’s apple could be. A third one right between her clavicles. They all smiled at a crowd of thousands before singing in unison.
How could they understand? What other reaction could they have if not despair?
It did not matter.
She opened her new leathery wings and took flight.